BLOOD, DIRT AND DAMNATION GRAVEN | 76 BPM [LYRICAL DIRECTION — DARK OUTLAW COUNTRY / SWAMP JAZZ / SOUTHERN RAP] One extremely deep, weathered male bass voice. Heavy natural Southern drawl, subtle slur, occasional stutter, low chest resonance. Cold, calculating, dry sarcastic delivery. Restrained and conversational, never theatrical. Dark traditional outlaw country with gritty Telecaster, acoustic guitar, walking upright bass, live drums, and full New Orleans jazz brass: growling trombones, punchy trumpets, dirty tenor sax. Loose swinging groove. Rap drops into massive 808s, hard snare and syncopated brass stabs, rapid low rhythmic delivery. One eight-bar tenor sax solo, absolutely no vocals during instrumental. Chorus rough, melodic and commanding. One male voice only, no backing vocals, no harmonies, no polished pop. [INTRO — SPOKEN, EXTREMELY LOW, DEAD CALM] Had a fella tell me he wasn’t scared of me. Hell, I never asked if he was. Funny thing to volunteer. [PAUSE] [VERSE 1 — LOW, LAZY OUTLAW COUNTRY] I’ve sat across from men with money, Watched ‘em lie through perfect teeth. Seen a broke man split his supper With somebody who couldn’t eat. I ain’t impressed by what you’re driving, What you own or who you know. Seen a whole lot of important people Turn worthless when the cards got low. I don’t interrupt a liar, Hell, I love a good long tale. Especially when the dumb son of a bitch Provides the evidence himself. [PAUSE] [CHORUS — DEEP, ROUGH, HEAVY BRASS] Blood, dirt and damnation, That’s how they tell it now. Funny how they leave out Everything that brought us here somehow. They remember when I finally spoke, Not how long I let things slide. Go ahead and call me a bastard— Just tell the fucking story right. [PAUSE] [VERSE 2 — SOUTHERN RAP, 808 DROP, BRASS STABS] I don’t need your respect, Don’t give a shit for applause. Half the men preaching morals Keep exceptions in their drawers. You got a version, I got facts, You got excuses, I got time. And I can sit here all damn night While you get tangled in your lies. You say you never meant it, Well, ain’t that convenient. Funny how your memory changes Depending on who gets to read it. I don’t need to raise hell, Don’t need to make a scene. I’ll let you tell it six more times— See how many stories that makes fifteen. [808 CUT — UPRIGHT BASS RETURNS] [VERSE 3 — LOW COUNTRY SWING, DRY HUMOR] Had a fella come around With an apology he’d practiced. Said he’d done some things back then, But hell, you know how shit happens. I poured coffee, let him finish, Watched him stare into the black. He said, “Can you forgive me?” I said, “For what?” [PAUSE] “Be specific about that.” [STOP — ONE FULL BEAT OF SILENCE] [INSTRUMENTAL — TENOR SAX SOLO, 8 FULL BARS] [Dirty, bluesy sax melody, low growling notes, slow bends and sharp high phrases. Upright bass, brushed drums, trombone underneath. No singing, humming, speech or ad-libs. Finish all eight bars.] [BRIDGE — SPOKEN, CLOSE MIC, BRASS FADES] See, I know I’ve done some fucked-up things. Some by accident. Some with a clear understanding of exactly what the hell I was doing. [PAUSE] But there’s a difference between owning your shit and letting somebody else write the goddamn story. [PAUSE] And I ain’t signing theirs. [FINAL CHORUS — FULL BRASS, DEEP COMMANDING BASS] Blood, dirt and damnation, That’s how they tell it now. Funny how they leave out Everything that brought us here somehow. They remember when I finally spoke, Not how long I let things slide. Go ahead and call me a bastard— Just tell the fucking story right. [OUTRO — SPOKEN, MUSIC STRIPS TO UPRIGHT BASS] Go ahead. Tell everybody what happened. [PAUSE] Just don’t leave out the part where you started it. [LOW TROMBONE GROWL — HARD END]
